


Less Like Myself

by Cottonstones



Category: Panic At The Disco, Young Veins
Genre: Gen, Insomnia, Introspection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-29
Updated: 2012-06-29
Packaged: 2017-11-08 20:13:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,789
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/447077
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cottonstones/pseuds/Cottonstones
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ryan can't sleep without someone there.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Less Like Myself

Ryan has been feeling less and less like himself lately. It's not sudden or slow. It's just _there_. He just wakes up and looks in the mirror and doesn't really know who he is anymore. It's not a midlife crisis. Ryan hasn't even hit the midlife point.

He's just a little lost.

Ryan has been having trouble sleeping lately. He doesn't like going to sleep in an empty house. He doesn't want to be alone. When they're recording music, it's Jon with him; when Jon goes home (because Jon _always_ goes home) Ryan calls Z. When Z is gone, it's Alex, Vincent, Michael, Victoria, the Nicks, a revolving door of people Ryan can convince to spend the night. When there's no one, a very rare occurrence, it's a house party filled with friends-of-a-friend-of-a-friend, a house full of strangers. Ryan will leave the party and lie down for the first time in hours. At least he'll sleep.

Ryan remembers being in Jon's basement, crouched uncomfortably on his knees. He was digging through Jon's collection of records during a break in the tour and he and Jon were the only ones still awake. Ryan didn't know what he wanted to listen to (Jon always falls back on his favorites), so he threw on Nat King Cole and stretched out on his back, looking upside-down at Jon sitting in his plush recliner, smiling at him.

It sort of bothers Ryan that Jon acts so old. He's twenty-five, but he acts like he's in his fifties. He thinks about it a lot when he can't sleep. So what if he thinks about Jon a lot? He thinks about all sorts of things a lot when he can't sleep; it doesn't mean anything. It didn't then, it doesn't now.

"You're not old," Ryan said from the floor that night. Jon had arched an eyebrow and played with a curl. He kept telling Ryan that he wanted to cut his hair (he has, by now), but Ryan sort of liked it long. They matched that way.

"I know I'm not. I won't be twenty-five for a few more months now."

This was in the spring. If Ryan had to list his favorite season, spring would be his second favorite. Winter is his least favorite, but that's neither here nor there.

Ryan pushed up off the floor and stood right in front of Jon, looming over him. Ryan planted a hand on either side of the arms of Jon's chair and got himself real close to Jon's face.

"Oh, God, you'll act even older when you're twenty-five, won't you?" Ryan had asked. Jon laughed a little, his hand coming up to press at Ryan's hip, like he thought Ryan needed to be steadied.

"You're awfully concerned about my age, Ryan." Jon tipped his head back so that he could look into Ryan's eyes. Ryan sighed and turned, sitting square on Jon's lap. It wasn't weird. Jon was small and comfortable and hogging the good chair. It wasn't weird.

"When you grow up, you won't have time for me," Ryan had admitted. He was being oddly honest that night. He thought about that a lot, about how Jon would grow up and abandon music for the life of a stay-at-home husband and father. It was a real fucking bummer.

Jon rested a hand against the center of Ryan's back. His fingers tapped an unfamiliar beat against Ryan's knobby spine.

"Who could forget about you?"

Oh, Pete, Spencer, Brendon, half of the Panic fans. Ryan didn't say that, though, not out loud.

Ryan turned his head to look at Jon and smiled, resting his hands on Jon's shoulders, rubbing at the thick bones and skin and muscle.

"Just don't get any older," Ryan told him.

Jon patted Ryan's knee and left his hand lingering there. "Okay."

"Okay," Ryan had repeated. He leaned in, then, and Jon didn’t move, so he pressed his mouth to Jon's. Jon hummed and laughed, his mouth still against Ryan's so that Ryan could feel that laugh, and then pulled away.

It wasn't weird. It was never weird.

That was the first, last, and only time Ryan ever kissed Jon Walker.

But back to not being able to sleep.

Ryan sometimes gets panicky. Sometimes, there's no one and he really is all alone. Those times, he spends hours watching movies – his favorites; they're comforting to him in a way – and scrolling up and down past Spencer's name in his phone.

Nine times out of ten, he'll call Spencer.

Spencer will come over without many questions and that's good, because Ryan can't really give him answers, even if he wanted to. They'll sort of always be connected in a weird way, in a way that means Spencer can't ignore Ryan calling him to come over at three in the morning.

Spencer cleans up a bit when he first comes in. He has a beer and smells like Brendon’s favorite drink and cleans up – Jon always cleans up, too, singsonging, "Always the guardian," Ryan following him around, picking up what Jon leaves behind and adding all-too-quietly, "Never the guarded." Spencer doesn’t clean the whole house, just the kitchen, clearing away empty bottles and some take-out containers.

They never talk about music and Ryan never takes a picture. He knows the fans would like it, but he sort of wants to keep Spencer his secret, like it used to be.

"It was better when we were kids," Ryan says sometimes. It's not even really true. Ryan's childhood was sort of shitty and pretty bad, but half the time, Ryan still wants to go back. Spencer will set down his bottle and wipe his mouth. He looks so drastically different that it's quite a shock to Ryan. Spencer will smile small, maybe a little touched or a little annoyed.

"It's not so bad now. It gets better every day."

"Maybe. Will you hang out in my room till I fall asleep?" Ryan asks. Spencer looks skeptical. Ryan doesn't think this is strange, either. He remembers twin-sized beds and Saturday nights when you wished your best friend didn’t snore or gave you just a little more elbow room. "I have a TV in there," Ryan adds. It feels like a bribe, makes his stomach hurt.

"Sure." Spencer taps the side of Ryan's leg with the back of his hand and pushes up off the couch. "Let's go."

Spencer just sits on top of Ryan's comforter. It's not like Ryan expected him to curl under the blanket with his jeans and t-shirt, but at least he's kicked his sneakers off. Ryan doesn't have a frame for his bed, just a mattress on the floor with sheets and pillows and comforters piled on top. Ryan is burrowed under the covers and Spencer is leaning against the headboard and watching TV with the sound down low. He doesn't have to be quiet. Ryan likes noise.

"Sorry for this. I don’t think I'm alright lately," Ryan says, muffled under the blankets.

"You worn out? And it's not a problem."

"You were out drinking with Brendon." Ryan avoids giving an answer to Spencer. He's not worn out. He's not _anything_. That's the problem.

"Are you asking me if I was?"

"If you were busy, you shouldn't have – "

"I'm here. You asked me and I'm here. What does it matter where I was before?"

"You smell like Corona. You smell like Brendon."

Ryan isn't jealous. He's just lonely. He remembers when he was part of a two to a four and now he's back to two again. It's a pretty sad state of affairs when Brendon Urie grows up on you. There was a time back before Jon or _Pretty. Odd. _It was their first tour. Ryan could never sleep. It feels like a mirror to now, sort of, in this strange way that makes no sense, because Ryan doesn't even feel like he ever was that person. He feels like it's someone he knew, someone he no longer speaks to. He couldn't sleep and Brent snored and Spencer always fell asleep with his iPod on a little too loud.__

Ryan would hang around the lounge and Brendon would keep him company. The Brendon in those memories – huge eyes, big smile, annoying as all fuck but endearing as hell – is the Brendon Ryan always pictures, even if that Brendon isn't the one out buying Spencer drinks or leaving tear-stained – Brendon always cries when he gets to yelling too much; he hates it, but he can't help it – angry voicemails on Ryan's cell phone.

Ryan and Brendon would watch movies and Ryan would let Brendon babble, because it was the perfect thing to fall asleep to. Brendon wouldn't be offended, he'd just keep going, talking about nothing until Ryan slipped off to sleep. Then, Brendon would be quiet – or so he's told Ryan. Ryan would always wake up like that, from those nights in the lounge, with Brendon practically right on top of him, and then Ryan would have to be mean and have to push Brendon away and go make some coffee or slip back into his bunk. He was mean because he couldn't be the one to indulge Brendon's curiosity. He didn't want to be the one who made Brendon realize he was less than straight. He has a girlfriend now, but he smells like Spencer, so maybe Spencer isn't mean. Brendon never complained back then; he was never tear-stained.

The lounge nights stopped once Jon joined the band – not because Ryan didn't want him to see, but because Jon gave Ryan this sort of feeling, a charge he had lost somewhere. Jon slept right across from Ryan and didn’t snore and Ryan could sleep. Ryan didn't miss the lounge nights then; he doesn't really miss them now, because he doesn't know Brendon now. Maybe if that little naïve, endearing as fuck Brendon showed up on Ryan's doorstep, grinning and making dumb jokes – well, Ryan can't say he'd turn down a good babble-to-nap session.

"I don't want to talk about Brendon," Spencer says flatly.

"Good. I don't, either."

Ryan flips so that he's facing Spencer and presses his face into the fabric of Spencer's jeans, cheek against Spencer's thigh. It's not weird. Spencer smells like home. Ryan is almost asleep, aching eyes closed, hand resting on Spencer's knee. Just before he falls asleep, he thinks he feels Spencer's hand on his head, just lying there, fingering the longer strands of Ryan's hair. It could be real or it could be the beginnings of a dream. Ryan won't ever ask. Spencer will be gone come morning – hell, probably by five – and Ryan will never know, but it's nice either way.

At least Ryan will sleep.


End file.
